


"Embroidered love in the depth of hell"

by Mochachild



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Bad Writing, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Original work - Freeform, Other, Pain, They die, Why am i on this website
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 20:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mochachild/pseuds/Mochachild
Summary: There is a dude who works in Starbucks and then he almost dies the rest would be a spoiler enjoy.





	"Embroidered love in the depth of hell"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bushdid911](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bushdid911/gifts).



> If u hate avacado toast then u r too old for this fic.

Trees leered over the small stone path, a small creek of frigid water rushing over the ashes of the fire. Cold smoke whispered through the fallen leaves, pushing them to the feet of the attacker. He gazed at the crimson splattered across the body, red colouring the barren grey that was his skin. Silently, the man leaned back against a fallen log, the cool dark moss cushioning the bruises and wounds that were littered across his back. A hand drifted to his stomach, feeling ribs before landing on the stab wound that was still dripping with dark red blood. He smiled weakly, a small chuckle escaping his lips as he glanced at the well worn book at his feet.

"Another battle won."

 

"For the last time, I'm not dating you!"

Beer cans littered the small table and college students used somebody's backpack as a makeshift dart board. People were walking around selling better alcohol and god knows what else to anybody drunk enough to spend their money.   
"Gabe it says right here we have 72% compatibility. We were basically made for each other!"  
The small blonde hovered over Gabe, waving the glittery iPhone as if to prove their profound love. Deafening music blasted over everybody's voices, providing a thin layer of privacy in the crowded space. Students huddled over cards and a pool table that was definitely not there the day before, and looked suspiciously like the one from Ethan's room. In midst of all the noise and chaos sat Tristan Rivers. He was holding a tattoo gun, working on some designs on his colleagues. To be honest, he couldn't draw for shit. His hand was unsteady, leaving shaky lines on their skin. In the end, they were too drunk to really care and ended up throwing money at him before spending more on something equally stupid.   
Tristan enjoyed these parties. He usually left with pockets filled with money and a whole lot of blackmail. This party, however, was different. Tristan was breathing hard as he raced out of the dorm room. The money was left abandoned on the table along with his tattoo supplies. By now it was dark, and winter nights in bla weren't the warmest. Short puffs of air stood out against the sky as he leaned the stone wall. Panic clawed at his chest, his hands shakily closing over each other. What he saw against the window wasn't some students pulling a prank. It wasn't a gang sign someone graffitied for fun. It was the mop logo, a simple arrow design that was etched into Tristan's nightmares.  
Tristan turned around when he heard footsteps. It was some guy from the party. He was wearing a big red hoodie that hung low over his face. It was no coincidence that this guy left same time as him, he must have seen the mark or he was the one who drew it. Tristan began to walk a little faster, uncertain if this guy was a threat, let alone human. The mop a lot of scientists in their group, whether there by choice or force.  
The man stayed just a few paces behind Tristan, their footsteps echoing off the alleyway walls. Tristan stopped, turning around rapidly, his fist clenched and ready, when he felt a sharp pain in his back. Instinctively he pulled away, caching at the wound and turned around to his attacker. The man from the college stood tall, bright green eyes trying to asses the situation. One of the attacking men stepped forward, the others immediately parting before him. 

 

"Well, well well. Look what we have here another one of them.'

 

The others chuckled darkly and this was starting to get to cliche for Tristen. He slowly brought his hands off the wound, feeling thick liquid bubble out, dark blood staining the cement. Seeing the crimson still warm and dripping down his fingers made his head swarm as more dripped out of his mouth. Luckily it wasn't deep, but Tristan felt his heartbeat quicken as he saw the other knives. Long smooth knives that gleamed in the faint moonlight. His vision blurred, leaving him feeling very vulnerable, practically blind and defenceless.  
Maybe the stab was deeper than expected. Red dots swarmed his vision as he tried to formulate a sentence. College-dude stepped forward, withdrawing along knife of his own from underneath his hoodie. 

"You touch him one more time, i will kill you."

The group laughed, and at that exact moment, Tristan knew something was off. They had guns out in the open but they still were holding knives? Either they were very stupid, or they intended to take their time. One of them punched his stomach, then shoved him roughly up against the wall of the alleyway, leaving long tears in his sweater. Another slapped him, pushing the side of his head into the stone as his jaw screamed in protest.

"That's...that's no way to treat a lady," he said, a steady stream of blood covering their hands and leaking through his shirt. "You gonna kill me?" Tristen slurred, his words messy and quiet,"You need me for a hostage? Who are you working for?”

The college dude stepped forward.  
"You have no reason to kill him. He's an innocent."

"Why would we do that. We just needed a reason to get you here."

Before he could react, Tristan was pulled to his feet, cold metal pressed up against his neck. The man smelled of alcohol and smoke, which meant bad stuff. Tristan knew firsthand how alcohol affected decision making.

"Hey, buddy, listen.." he trailed off. 

What could he say to convince this guy he shouldn't stab him again? He seemed pretty happy with the first time. Tristan clenched his eyes shut as the man dragged the knife up to his temple, leaving a small trail of red, shining brightly against the light of the moon.

"Let the boy go. He didn't do anything."

"No? I heard he can works his way around a gun."

The college guy swallowed, clearly getting more and more nervous. Tristan tried to push the guy, but a rock had grip like that, it was going to be a issue.

"Ah, ah,ah. You know what a gun is, boy?"

He tried to answer, but the amount of blood leaking over his sweater was becoming a problem. His lips were slowly fading to blue and his face was chalky and pale. 

"Seems to me he needs a little saving, Dylan. Isn't that your job? Do the one thing the good old man trusted you with?”

The hoodie boy frowned,a warning expression settling onto his face.  
"I'm giving you one more chance to release him."

The man pushed the knife into Tristan's neck a little harder.

"And if I don't?"

Dylan sighed, as if he felt pity for the group of people. He threw his knife to the ground and and brought out page of a book from his pocket.   
"Then I hope you've said your last goodbyes."

The last thing Tristan heard was desperate screams before the world faded to darkness.

 

When he woke, he immediately noticed the snow. In Toronto it snowed a lot in winter, but never like this. From a small window to his side he saw at least three feet of snow, more still piling on. He was inside small cabin, carpets hanging from the wall and four blankets piled on top of him, a comforting weight.  
His limbs felt heavy and keeping his eyes open was hard. His feet felt numb, like someone just left them in the snow. Slowly, he became aware of the dull pain on his neck every time he took in a breath of freezing air, and the way his ribs throbbed in protest when he exhaled, familiar sound of rustling bandages by his feet. He tried to sit up with as little damage to his neck as possible, looking down to the edge of a bed. There sat Dylan, wrapping bandages around his arms where they go scraped against the wall. His eyes looked swollen and grey, his expression lifeless. 

 

"Hey."

 

Tristan's voice sounded hoarse and dry, causing to wonder how long he'd been out for. Dylan looked up, relief flooding his flooding his voice.

“I thought you would be uncomfortable staying there, after what had happened, so I brought you to the mountains. My parents have a cabin here that's unoccupied most of the time, so I figured I could patch you up here then give you a ride."

 

Tristen glanced at him in uncertainty.  
"Who are you? Why are you helping me?"

 

Dylan answered too quickly, like he was preparing for this question his whole life. It left Tristan brushing away a heavy cloud of suspicion.  
"My father was a friend of your fathers, you probably don't remember me."

 

“You know what he does? His work, I mean.”

“The hitman thing? It's not as big of a deal as you think. A lot of people are hired to do dirty work for the government. No matter what kind.”

Dylan finished wrapping the bandage and secured with a clip. He stood up, yawning deeply before grabbing a backpack.

“He asked me to help you if you ever needed it, and when I saw the sign I went looking for you. You can't go back there, and i doubt there are a lot of places you could go and be safe. I know a guy in Italy. He knows your father and about the cult that's coming after you. We can go there, he’ll now what to do.”


End file.
